


Keep You Warm

by whateverrrrwhatever



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Decides to Make a Move, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, Richie Doesn't Know How to Dress for Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever
Summary: “Shut up and comehere, youdick.” Fed up and furious, Eddie grabs Richie by the wrists and yanks him forward so hard he loses his balance, stumbling forward, and shoves Richie’s hands up under the hem of his sweater, pressing them flat against his stomach, so Richie’s stupid broad palms are pinned under Eddie’s, his stupid long fingers splayed over Eddie’s undershirt against his belly.“Oh,” Richie says. The way he’s slouching into his coat puts him so much closer to Eddie’s height, so he barely has to look up to meet Richie’s gaze, even though they’re only inches apart. Eddie swallows, too loud and obvious. Maybe he should have thought this through a little better.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 219





	Keep You Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "letting them warm their cold hands under your shirt."

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s cold.” Richie steps into the wind and shivers, tucking his gloveless hands into his armpits. Eddie watches him retreat into the collar of his jacket -- too light for late December in Maine. His shoulders are nearly to his ears, but Richie has terrible posture anyway, so it’s not that different from normal -- he’s still taller than Eddie, and broader. His shoulders, his hands--

“No shit, idiot. It’s Bangor. You’ve been living in California too long,” Eddie says, shaking his head to derail that familiar, useless train of thought. He rolls his eyes and pats down his pockets. “Where are my fucking gloves?”

“I don’t know, Eds. Do you need a pair that’s tied together through your sleeves like they make for fuckin’ toddlers?” Richie says. He’s always a dick but he’s twice as bad when he’s tired, or hungry, or, apparently, cold. He’s already stamping his feet on the icy sidewalk and starting to sulk. 

Eddie tries not to stare at his mouth, his cheeks red from the cold. If Richie starts pouting, Eddie might not be able to stop himself from trying to bite at Richie’s bottom lip. Or he might simply die. Either way, it’s a risky situation.

“Those are mittens, jackass. And at least I didn’t lock my keys in the car,” Eddie grouses, shooting Richie a glare. Richie doesn’t even notice, distracted by rubbing his own arms to keep warm. Eddie checks the inside pocket of his coat, again, just to be sure and -- nothing. “Great. Now I’m gonna get fuckin’ frostbite, just like you.”

Richie doesn’t have the decency to look even slightly chagrined. “I’m not going to get frostbite, and neither are you. Maggie and Went are going to be here in like, twenty minutes, max. And I’m not the asshole who got us kicked out of the restaurant.”

“Hey, fuck you! It was a joint effort.” Eddie frowns. Maybe he shouldn’t have been yelling so loud and swearing so much seated next to what was clearly an eleven-year-old’s birthday party. 

But maybe Richie shouldn’t have been so fucking annoying, shouldn’t have wound him up so much, like always. Shouldn’t have untangled that stupid itchy wool scarf from his neck to show all that skin, rubbed pink. Eddie had wanted to get his mouth just there, sink his teeth in, climb into Richie’s lap. It had been infuriating. It still is.

Richie’s rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Yeah, well I’m still gonna blame you when I lose my hands to frostbite. It’s so fucking cold, I could freeze to death waiting for my parents to pick us up in front of an Italian restaurant in fucking downtown Bangor. Here lies Richie Tozier: survived a psycho killer clown, just to die of exposure in broad daylight as his best friend and traitor, Eddie Kaspbrak, stood by and watched.”

“Shut up,” Eddie hisses. Richie’s knuckles are bright red but his fingers are starting to get pale. He hops from foot to foot cups them over his mouth to warm them with his breath, like that’s going to do anything. 

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I have been in California too long. Maybe I should have _stayed_ there.” Richie’s being a dramatic bitch, but his hands really do look cold, and his face looks drawn and miserable. He’s as deep in his jacket as he can go and Eddie thinks he might be shivering for real now. It’s pitiful. Eddie hates it.

“Shut up and come _here_ , you _dick_.” Fed up and furious, Eddie grabs Richie by the wrists and yanks him forward so hard he loses his balance, stumbling forward, and shoves Richie’s hands up under the hem of his sweater, pressing them flat against his stomach, so Richie’s stupid broad palms are pinned under Eddie’s, his stupid long fingers splayed over Eddie’s undershirt against his belly.

“Oh,” Richie says. The way he’s slouching into his coat puts him so much closer to Eddie’s height, so he barely has to look up to meet Richie’s gaze, even though they’re only inches apart. Eddie swallows, too loud and obvious. Maybe he should have thought this through a little better.

“Jeez, Eds. Buy a guy dinner, first.” The joke doesn’t quite land. Richie’s voice is too strained, his grin uncertain.

“I just fucking did,” Eddie blurts, mad at himself for doing something so fucking stupid and just -- too much, too obvious. Mad at Richie for turning everything into a fucking joke. Mad at Richie for failing to pull it off and making everything worse. “Here, why don’t you go ahead and freeze--”

But when he tries to pull Richie’s hands from where they’re cocooned, he can’t. Richie’s gripping his undershirt, fingers twined in the fabric, pulling on it, probably stretching it out. Eddie looks up at him in confusion.

“You’re warm,” Richie explains, shrugging with one shoulder. He won’t meet Eddie’s gaze, looking benignly over his shoulder, down the hill to the river.

“That’s because I brought a coat warm enough for winter in Maine, like anyone who spent a quarter of their life in this godforsaken state would do. Not whatever the fuck it is you’re wearing.” He tries to gesture without moving his hands from where they’re pressed over Richie’s.

Richie laughs again, a flat, strange sound. “Really, Eds. If you wanted me to grope you, all you had to do was ask. I’ll feel you up any time. Who knew there was a six pack hiding under all these sensible layers?”

“Oh my god, Richie, do you _ever_ shut the fuck up?”

“What kind of stupid question is that? You already know--”

“Could you just, for once in your life--”

Richie barks a laugh, sharp and a little mean. “Just try and make me, Eds. You should know by now--”

Richie doesn’t get a chance to tell Eddie what he should know, because what Eddie knows is this: every single way he’s ever tried to shut Richie up has been useless, and Richie’s mouth is way too fucking close for Eddie to avoid doing something he’s always imagined would finally get Richie to _stop talking_ , something he realized he’s wanted to do since he was in middle school. Just for a second, to see if it works, to feel the shape of his lips with Eddie’s own, to find out how he tastes.

Eddie kisses him. It’s a collision of lips and teeth -- Richie’s still trying to talk, at first -- and slips a firm hand under Richie’s scarf to grip the back of his neck and pull him in, keep him there. Richie stills, cutting himself off with a surprised huff, but he doesn’t pull away.

Now that he’s stopped talking, Eddie makes no move to back off. He really kisses Richie, clumsy and a little cold to start. But a small sound catches in the back of Richie’s throat anyway, and just like that, he’s kissing Eddie back, fierce and eager in a way that zips down Eddie’s spine, raises the hair on the back of his neck.

Richie tastes like Coke and salt and the peppermint hard candy he snagged from the restaurant on the way out the door. His mouth opens under Eddie’s, and Eddie can’t stop himself from taking it for the invitation it is. He presses closer, hooking an arm around Richie’s waist, tugging at the curls brushing Richie’s collar with his other hand as he licks into Richie’s mouth, hot and a little sloppy, too fucking good to stop.

Richie’s fingers flex against Eddie’s belly and Eddie realizes he’s twisting the fabric of Eddie’s shirt between them, knuckles brushing against Eddie in a slow drag that has him gasping into Richie’s mouth. Richie tugs him closer and Eddie lets him, his booted foot landing between Richie’s own, their bodies buffered by shirts and sweaters, Richie’s inadequate jacket and Eddie’s cashmere scarf.

Then he catches Eddie’s lower lip between his teeth and tugs, _hard_ , and it’s like a shock of static electricity, a jolt in Eddie’s chest that forces his heart to skip a beat and restart, a jangly nervous feeling that reverberates through his ribcage. It startles him with how good it is, how much and how badly he _wants_ , how quickly this is getting out of hand.

Eddie breaks the kiss. For a long moment, he and Richie just look at each other. Richie’s wide-eyed and his cheeks and nose and the tips of his ears are flushed with cold. His mouth is flushed, too, bright pink from Eddie’s lips, from where his stubble scraped against Richie’s skin. He stares. The sounds of downtown start to filter back into Eddie’s awareness -- the rumble of an idling engine, the sound of water rushing in the canal, the creaking and crackling of the snow and ice groaning in the sun.

“It worked,” Eddie says finally, still a little breathless, betrayed by the way each exhale condenses into the cold air, undeniable. Richie’s panting, too, looking just as insane as Eddie feels, standing in the middle of downtown Bangor with a semi from getting to first base with his best friend at forty years old.

“What the fuck.” Richie frowns. “What the fuck, Eds? Was that what that was? Are you fucking--”

“Richie, no—” Eddie shakes his head, but Richie’s already moving to pull away from him, a taking a half-step back. If Eddie could just explain-- but he’s not sure there is an explanation, not one he can untangle from the jumble of thoughts in his head and the things he can barely admit to himself on sleepless nights. Not one more telling than the feel of Richie’s breath against his cheek, the way his mouth moved against Eddie’s, the infuriating breadth of his shoulders under Eddie’s hands. The way his eyelashes looked up close when he closed his eyes while Eddie was kissing him and he was kissing Eddie back. He was kissing Eddie back.

Richie tries to tug his hands free from where they’re trapped under Eddie’s sweater. But Eddie pulls him in again, lets one of Richie's hands go so Eddie can reach up to cup his jaw, warm hand against cold skin, stubble prickling his palm. The gesture stops Richie in his tracks.

Eddie drags Richie’s other hand to his back, tucking himself against Richie’s body. The move rucks Eddie’s sweater up, sends a draft of cold air against his belly. He doesn’t fucking care; he’s overheated, he -- his breath hitches, and he hooks his fingers around the hinge of Richie’s jaw and guides Richie’s mouth back to his own.

Eddie’s not surprised, this time, at the current running through his skin, the low hum of want buzzing along his nerves. He hums into Richie’s lips, kissing him slow and deep this time, an exploration, and hears the low moan in answer deep in Richie’s chest. Richie reaches for Eddie, groping at his sweater to slip his hand back under. Only this time, he manages to creep his fingers beneath Eddie’s shirt, his broad palm skimming over Eddie’s belly, brushing against the dark trail of hair leading down to his fly.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasps into Richie’s mouth, shivering. He surges into Richie, as if there’s any room between them, ignoring the urge to wrap a leg around Richie’s thigh and hitch himself closer. _I want to climb him like a fucking tree_ , Eddie thinks wildly, not for the first time, but never before with such urgency.

This time, when they part, Richie doesn’t say anything for a long minute. It’s the wait between the lightning strike and thunderclap: anticipatory, uncertain.

“Eds,” Richie says haltingly. “Can I. Are you…”

“Your hands aren’t cold anymore,” Eddie says. Richie’s not making sense, and Eddie’s too distracted by where his hands are still shoved up under Eddie’s shirt, both reassuring and electrifying.

“Yeah,” Richie huffs out a laugh and it drifts away in a small cloud. “Right. Listen, Eds, I—“

An horn honks across the street. Of course. Richie’s dad, with the spare keys.

“Ride’s here,” Eddie says. Richie yanks his hands away from Eddie and steps back, stumbling a little in his haste. Eddie doesn’t turn around. Old Wentworth Tozier couldn’t have seen much, but the longer Eddie doesn’t have to face him, the better. He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to make eye contact after making out with Richie on the sidewalk like a fucking teenager. At least not without blushing bright red to the tips of his ears. It’s a dead giveaway.

“Went and that fucking Cayman,” Richie mutters. “Perfect fucking timing.” He sighs and jogs around Eddie toward the gray Porsche idling across the street and ducks down to the window, rubbing at his arms, hunched against the cold. 

Eddie fusses with the hem of his sweater, tugging his undershirt down from where it’s bunched at his waist. He takes a deep breath, and tries his hardest not to think too much, waiting for Richie to come back. Then they’ll warm up Richie’s car — he rolls his eyes at his dad, but Richie’s just as bad, driving that stupid Mustang — and get in, taking off their coats and settling into the heated seats to head back to the house. And then…

And what then? Eddie watches Richie, still huddled next to the driver’s side window, looking askance at Went. He’s bracing one of his hands against the doorframe, leaning over the car. His hand that was just touching Eddie’s belly, making it hard to breathe, making him want to shove Richie to the ground and climb on top of him.

And then… And then, Eddie’s going to figure out how to do just that. Again, and again, and again. Kiss the infuriating grin off of Richie’s face, grab his hands and put them back on Eddie’s skin, where they belong. He’s going to make Richie gasp, flush pink all the way down to his collar, goad him into biting Eddie’s lip again. He’s going to do it. They’re going to get back to the house, and Eddie’s going to do it. He's going to climb Richie like a fucking tree.

“Ready?” Richie asks. He’s stopped in front of Eddie on his way back to the parking lot, keys in hand. His expression is neutral, open. Someone else might think that means Richie’s unaffected. Eddie knows it means he’s terrified.

“Ready,” Eddie nods, grinning. Richie smiles back, just a little quirk of his lips, before he turns and heads back toward the car. Eddie jogs a couple steps to catch up and snag Richie’s hand in his own, to keep it warm, at least until they get to the car.


End file.
